(written for the 2015 Klonnie Tag Party: Halloween Special)

Part. 1

No one shone more brightly at The Grand Guignol.

It was not simply metaphorical speech, for no one could aspire to set the room ablaze and breathe fire through their lips.

Only Qetsiyah.

The stage name had been chosen for her by Monsieur Henri, a French expatriate, who had once likened her skin to cinnamon and hence, had been obsessed with calling her Cannelle. The French word, however, did not sound impressive to the public.

That's when Mr. Goldberg, the theater's book-keeper and producer, gave Monsieur Henri the idea to look up Hebrew names. He had an extensive collection of Hebrew almanacs at home, and in no time, Qetsiyah was discovered, to everyone's delight. It was cinnamon still, but it sounded like a queenly name, the name of some blood-drinking vampiress who stole children in the middle of the night.

Her real name was quaint enough. The Bennetts hailed from Atlanta, but it was best not to think of her heritage in the North. New York was the future, never the past.

And the theater was the ever-lasting present. Shakespeare had known the truth of it; the actors may vary, but the stage never changes and when you are walking or dancing or singing or weeping on those floorboards, you project yourself into a realm outside of time.

Qetsiyah would have liked to smile on the stage too, but enchantresses who play with fire are not supposed to smile. They must only smirk, and throw snide glances at the gasping audience. Their eyes must match their mouths in fire.

Her number was simple, although it altered slightly, according to each 'penny dreadful'. She was always, quite always, the villain. Even when there was no other woman in the play, she was the image of venom. She had asked Monsieur Henri to let her play Desdemona at least once. He had complained, in sweet tones, that Othello was a dark man already. What use would there be for a dark woman at his side?

He's not a dark man. He wears soot on his face, she would have said, but she had given up trying to convince him that she could recite lines and learn poetry.

She was the serpent, the devil, the femme fatale, Lady Macbeth without a title – better yet – the three witches on the moor. And The Grand Guignol specialized in horror, after all. How could flames and dark skin and Oriental tongues represent anything else?

Ah, but she smiled secretly inside, even though she was never allowed to be candid.

She smiled, because the upper-hand was hers.

She smiled because the flames were real, utterly real.

"Mother of Evil! Come forth and take me to your bosom! I don't wish to live another day!"

The young man wailed and gnashed his teeth in front of the gilded mirror. He held the shaving knife to his throat, scratching it against his Adam's apple so convincingly that a young lady in the first row hid her face in her father's sleeve. He chuckled at her distress.

"Mother of Evil, I implore you, I beseech you! My heart, my soul is yours!"

There was a moment of perfect silence. You could hear the ladies' fans undulating in the stifling heat of the theater boxes. A gentleman coughed into his handkerchief, and he only received reprehensive looks for the interruption.

Lavinia Gilbert gripped her fiancé's hand tightly.

"Nik, here she comes!"

The young man turned away to hide a yawn and checked his pocket-watch. He couldn't swallow these infernal shows. Oh, they were not infernal for the right reasons. The only frightening thing about them was the amount of money and time wasted in the ordeal.

To be fair, gaudy Gothic spectacles could hardly move him, since he had watched enough decaying corpses in his life that no amount of corn syrup and decapitated doll limbs could make him start, but that was no excuse for poor showmanship. Not to mention, the dialogue was simply atrocious.

Mother of Evil, he scoffed.

Lavinia was gasping and writhing with excitement. "Look, look!"

If only this 'mother of evil' could move faster, he might have time to call on Stefan Salvatore this evening – His train of thought was interrupted by a shock of bright yellow at the corner of his eye.

Niklaus Mikaelson knew real fire when he saw it. He could smell and taste true flames, just as easily as he could a full glass of port.

His eyes roamed fiercely over the stage, eager to find the source.

She was petite. That was the first thing he noticed. The flames were fat and heavy and angry and they rose to the ceiling, but she was a small thing.

He heard women and men screaming, hollering in the background. Lavinia was clutching his arm desperately.

"MOTHER OF EVIL!" the young man on stage bellowed, prostrating before her like a supine piece of wood.

She wasn't looking at him. She had been trained to look into the invisible eyes watching her. Her mouth was turned up impishly.

She opened her lips and out came the fiery blaze of hell. Out, like a spark!

She leaned her head back and let them come forth like waves of a volcano. Her long, curved neck was marked with bright, red interstices, as if one could see the flames travelling through her.

He watched with disbelieving, heathen eyes.

She was dressed in a black satin robe, quilted with golden signets and red swirls, the kind shamans wore during rituals when they wanted to invoke some demon. Except, the young actor had invoked her.

Her eyes were blackened with kohl in the style of some Egyptian princess, but he caught the brilliant green jade in them. Unusual eyes. Everything about her was aflame, except the eyes which were cool, like a forest river.

Why had no one seized her yet?

Were they all fools? How could they not see it was all – real?

Lavinia giggled and shrieked beside him.

"It looks so real! Oh, you must think me a fool, but it looks so real! Monsieur Henri has outdone himself."

Niklaus looked down at the agitated crowd. They were all teetering and hollering with glee, but their excitement was benevolent; they were half-clapping, half-drawing away, just like a child who is not sure if the contraption before him is meant to amuse or disrupt him.

When all the fire had extinguished, and the enchantress took a small bow before the crowd, the applause became more confident and some passionate gentlemen even shouted Bravo!, to which she bent her head appreciatively.

Cretins!

They all thought it had been some clever trick.

The scene went on in its usual mawkishness. The 'mother of evil' danced a demented waltz with the young hero, who tried, helplessly, to get away from her.

"It is too late, you poor soul!" she cackled in his ear. Her accent was broken. It sounded maudlin and put-on. Niklaus had a hard time watching further. She bent the young man's neck and bit him hard. Fake blood gushed out like a torrent, dripping down on the people in the first row, the unassuming victims.

A young lady fainted, the same who had hid her face in her father's sleeve.

The enchantress laughed at the glass-eyed figure of her young victim, who now lay in a motionless heap at her feet. Writhing like a possessed snake on her hands and knees, she advanced to the front of the stage and let her eyes rest on each round face.

"Each of you shall suffer the same curse if you call upon the Mother of Evil! Hear me!"

The robes flowed around her menacingly, enshrining her in darkness, an artificial effect that, no doubt, worked wonders on the gentiles of the Upper East Side.

Her eyes, however, betrayed her. Whatever foulsome creature she was meant to be, those cool river eyes saved her from the decadence she was meant to personify.

Still – still, when she snarled and a small flame erupted from her throat, his fingers twitched and his heart stopped.

She had awoken some long-dormant curiosity in him. Perhaps curiosity was inadequate. No, it was more like thirst.

What would blood and fire taste like?

Lavinia was sorry to say her fiancé could not bother to come see her the following day. And they had planned such a lovely outing to the park! They were supposed to rent a cozy little boat and laze about on the lake for a few hours. Her brother would be there, of course, and Niklaus' sister too, but it would be ever so intimate, especially during the hot season.

Alas, Niklaus, ever the business man, had serious work to attend to. Young ladies need must understand.

"Oooh, Qetsiyah?"

She put down the hairbrush. Her hand visibly tensed, although she tried to harbor a small smile when Monsieur Henri entered her dressing room.

"Yes?"

"Ah, tending to those wild locks of yours?"

She looked into the mirror. Half her maquillage was already done, but she wanted to relish the moments before she had to tie on that wretched wig again.

"Afraid so," she mumbled, pulling the robe around her. "I'll be ready for the show, Monsieur."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself, there are still some hours to go. Well…actually, you should put on that wig, my dear. There is a gentleman caller for you. I do believe he means to hire us – I mean, of course, hire you for a private show. He looks like a spend-thrift, if you ask me. Just think of the profits!" His eyes glittered with fancies of future luxury. Monsieur Henri always dreamed he would be swept up by some rich patron one day. He had walked in high circles in France, had been the cherished enfant terrible of a host of affluent men, but an unpardonable scandal, of which he never spoke, had sent him away from his beloved country. Still, he never gave up hope. He was very much like a Cinderella in this manner. She stifled a laugh.

"Do you…wish for me to attend to him now?"

Usually, gentlemen callers meant two things; either they had been struck with "brown fever" and wanted a taste of the forbidden, or were earnestly looking to employ her for some small parlor tricks at a séance, which were becoming increasingly popular in New York, or at a Contessa's eccentric dinner party.

She was eager to see where this particular man would fall.

When Monsieur Henri departed, she made hasty attempts to finish up her Qetsiyah mask.

"That won't be necessary. In fact, I'd like you to remove everything at once."

She turned around, as if her own fire had burned her.

His features were cat-like. No, he looked more like a lion, golden and impatient. He was dressed impeccably, rich and sober, but with a dash of extravagance. His gloves were sparkling white. His mouth was too red to be proper. Was it rouge, wine, or...?

"Everything?" she echoed uncertainly.

His words brooked no argument. "Everything."

She felt betrayed by the shiver that danced across her spine. "Why should I?"

"Because I know the fire is real."

Bonnie Sheila Bennett, born in Atlanta, 1869, now only nineteen years of age, blushed like she had never blushed before.